All is quiet here for now. Arrived late last night, around 11 pm. What a drive. Seems the older I get, 48 this year, the harder the road gets. Then again, I don’t remember anyone saying this was going to be easy. Life, its either something you do, or something that gets done to you. The interesting part is many never figure out they have a choice. Too busy wallowing in the pain of yesterday, remembering their lives. Or captured in the fantasy of tomorrow, imagining their lives. Somehow they forgot all about today, about this one moment, and without a notice it passes them by.
This morning I met the neighbor of the friend I have come to visit. Intelligent, with deep insights and a passion of philosophical discussions. Are there any other kind? Maybe, if the so called Leaders of this world delved into a few, instead of pontificating on how it will be, they might actually come to a conclusion and rectify some of the hell most of us live in. But that’s a philosophical discussion in itself, isn’t it?
We were discussing mental illness, and those who suffer from it. The sufferings perception. She was informed by a close member of her family, recently diagnosed as schizophrenic, she went crazy because God came into her mind. Wow. The idea makes such perfect sense. What human mind, operating at 10% capacity, could host the intelligence of a superior existence. Reality would crack.
This conversation took me back immediately to the first time it happened to me. I have known all my life I am a First Nations descendant. I can remember conversations as child, being instructed to never forget. Although I did not grow up with my siblings, in a family of us, I remembered those instructions. I have never forgotten. The first 30 some years of my life, I did absolutely nothing with that knowledge. Like the color of my hair, the color of my eyes. Something known but never deeply pondered. I was the opposite of what is so prevalent today. I was a Native pretending to be a white guy! Married the perfect white woman, had the perfect home in the suburbs, drove the perfect vehicle.
In 1993, that changed, and drastically. My home at the time had a furnished basement, which I used as an office. I was there one Saturday afternoon, around 2 pm, working on the books for my business. Suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore. I was standing on the prairie. Buffalo grass to my waist, blowing gently in the wind. A clear summer afternoon. I looked to the West, and fear encircled my heart with an icy grip to rival that of the Reaper himself. I could not see the west for the Thundercloud coming to me. Not over it, below it or around. It was the West. Utter darkness stretching from horizon to horizon. Lightning, wind, rain and hail. Leading this horrifying visage, coming straight at me, was the largest, blackest bird I never imagined. Flashing eyes, a beak designed to shear flesh from bone. Later I would learn it was a Thunderbird. Just before this Thunderbird hit me, my fear building as though I were watching a needle get closer and closer to my eye, slam, back into my body.
I was left dazed and confused, sitting in my basement. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I had done nothing to initiate it. I had no frame of reference. I have since learned many thing about what happened to me then. The journey to that understanding has been, lets say, interesting? Momentarily I hosted the intelligence of a superior entity.
Did it make me crazy? Did I lose my mind? Some would say, oh hell yeah! Mr. hawk is, if nothing else, bat shit insane. Maybe its true crazy people don’t know they are crazy. I certainly don’t think so. Nor do I think this journey, my vision of a unity of the mix bloods is insane. I absolutely believe its possible. I see it, feel it, taste it. I comprehend the effects, and the beauty it will render, to all our relatives. I wonder, is there a way I can paint this picture for you?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Release
Before coming to South western Pennsylvania, I had been traveling the country. Many beautiful experiences. Elders and Medicine People. I have never had a traditional home or family. Many siblings, but no family. But these are stories for another time. During this period of constant traveling, I began my journey as a Sundancer. Something I fought tooth and nail before winding up at the Tree of Life, wondering how the hell I got there. Let me share with you what was shared with me.
I had been in middle Tennessee, at a gathering of relatives from around the country. Not blood relatives mind you. Indian Country has a saying, coming from the Lakota. We are all related. These are the relatives I speak of. For three days we gathered together in prayer and ceremony. A yuwipi man had come from Pine Ridge. This would be my first yuwipi and the friend who's yard I was camping in would be singing. Jokingly we often referred to him as a Lakota jukebox. Seemed he knew every song and then some. The basement of our host had been set up, and as many as could crowded in. Windows blackened, the door sealed. In total darkness the yuwipi man lay upon the altar he was given responsibility for. The singing began and the Ancestors came. Half the time I tried to convince myself what I was seeing was real. The other half denying it. Lights flashing, creatures in the dark moving about. Exclamations for those assembled who were being touched. It was an awe inspiring ceremony.
When the final day passed and all had collected their belongings, each departed to where they had come from. Not having anywhere to go home to, I moved on to the next ceremony. A healing ceremony was taking place on the Boundary. Qualla, the Eastern home of the Cherokee People. A healer had come down from Rosebud. An invitation was extended and I accepted. Hell, didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Qualla was close, only a few hours drive down the highway.
In my travels I had attended other ceremonies. I supported at Sundance, witnessed what these men were suffering through. I had experienced the power that emanates from the circle. But there was no way in hell I was doing it. I'm a cripple for gods sake, can barely walk, and I sure as hell ain’t going to make one day amongst these men, so willing to lay down their lives for the People. Such courage and strength. A young man, pierced through the back, hanging in the tree. Eagle fans in each hand, dancing! Dancing on the air, smiling and laughing. Those eagle wings flying him to someplace only he could see. My heart simply burst. Where does one find the courage, the strength to give so much?
The ceremony at Qualla was being held for a Elder woman who was sick with cancer, and she didn’t have long to live in this world. Soon she would be going home, to her Ancestors who were waiting. We prayed, all of us together, more I believe for those who would be left behind. In the lodge medicine was passed of which we all were invited to partake. It was in this lodge, during the third round, came my initiation to Sundance. The lodge suddenly expanded to include the entire universe, and I was no longer there.
I found myself standing in the Sundance circle. Dancing in the South, pierced through the back. Singers had begun the water song. I could feel my pulse beating in unison. Dressed all in black, with a mask upon my face. My relatives under the dance arbor shade, standing, singing for me as my feet gently tapped a a two step rhythm on mother earth. In moments I returned. To the healing lodge, the prayers offered from love and compassion. Visions had been brought to me previously, so I was well aware of what had just happened. But Sundance? Oh no. And what was with this all in black thing? What was with the mask? I spent a few years, searching for answers to those questions, and many others. Many medicine people counseled me, but every time I got to the part of me in black with a mask, the conversation ended. The Elder I was with would turn cold as winter stone. Some actually walked away from me. Others refused to speak with me anymore. Well, ain’t this lovely. I'm shown this thing, have no understanding of it, and no one is telling me squat. Add to that Sundance. No way. That simply wasn’t happening.
Well, it did happen. In time I did dance that vision. Exactly the way it was shown. In time, much was explained, although there is still much much more I don’t know. I have learned, when I am able to handle it, when my mind has the ability to comprehend it, the understanding will come. Patience was not an easy lesson for me to learn. It usually takes a busload of pain before I finally get it. But I am getting it.
Today I live with another vision. A vision of us, the lost and forgotten, the unknown coming together as one. A vision of us unified, under The Buffalo Boy Foundation, dancing for all our relatives. Joining together all our strength, our courage and banishing forever this idea of individuality. Fulfilling a vision of all Nations joining together under the Tree of Life, where we can be again the once magnificent People we always have been. Pierced through our hearts this agony of separation. Its time to break my relatives. Four times to the tree. Now walk with me. Feel the ropes tug gently and allow them to release you. Into a new dawn, a new beginning, fulfilling the promise of the Seventh Generation. Break my relatives, break. I will catch you.
I had been in middle Tennessee, at a gathering of relatives from around the country. Not blood relatives mind you. Indian Country has a saying, coming from the Lakota. We are all related. These are the relatives I speak of. For three days we gathered together in prayer and ceremony. A yuwipi man had come from Pine Ridge. This would be my first yuwipi and the friend who's yard I was camping in would be singing. Jokingly we often referred to him as a Lakota jukebox. Seemed he knew every song and then some. The basement of our host had been set up, and as many as could crowded in. Windows blackened, the door sealed. In total darkness the yuwipi man lay upon the altar he was given responsibility for. The singing began and the Ancestors came. Half the time I tried to convince myself what I was seeing was real. The other half denying it. Lights flashing, creatures in the dark moving about. Exclamations for those assembled who were being touched. It was an awe inspiring ceremony.
When the final day passed and all had collected their belongings, each departed to where they had come from. Not having anywhere to go home to, I moved on to the next ceremony. A healing ceremony was taking place on the Boundary. Qualla, the Eastern home of the Cherokee People. A healer had come down from Rosebud. An invitation was extended and I accepted. Hell, didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Qualla was close, only a few hours drive down the highway.
In my travels I had attended other ceremonies. I supported at Sundance, witnessed what these men were suffering through. I had experienced the power that emanates from the circle. But there was no way in hell I was doing it. I'm a cripple for gods sake, can barely walk, and I sure as hell ain’t going to make one day amongst these men, so willing to lay down their lives for the People. Such courage and strength. A young man, pierced through the back, hanging in the tree. Eagle fans in each hand, dancing! Dancing on the air, smiling and laughing. Those eagle wings flying him to someplace only he could see. My heart simply burst. Where does one find the courage, the strength to give so much?
The ceremony at Qualla was being held for a Elder woman who was sick with cancer, and she didn’t have long to live in this world. Soon she would be going home, to her Ancestors who were waiting. We prayed, all of us together, more I believe for those who would be left behind. In the lodge medicine was passed of which we all were invited to partake. It was in this lodge, during the third round, came my initiation to Sundance. The lodge suddenly expanded to include the entire universe, and I was no longer there.
I found myself standing in the Sundance circle. Dancing in the South, pierced through the back. Singers had begun the water song. I could feel my pulse beating in unison. Dressed all in black, with a mask upon my face. My relatives under the dance arbor shade, standing, singing for me as my feet gently tapped a a two step rhythm on mother earth. In moments I returned. To the healing lodge, the prayers offered from love and compassion. Visions had been brought to me previously, so I was well aware of what had just happened. But Sundance? Oh no. And what was with this all in black thing? What was with the mask? I spent a few years, searching for answers to those questions, and many others. Many medicine people counseled me, but every time I got to the part of me in black with a mask, the conversation ended. The Elder I was with would turn cold as winter stone. Some actually walked away from me. Others refused to speak with me anymore. Well, ain’t this lovely. I'm shown this thing, have no understanding of it, and no one is telling me squat. Add to that Sundance. No way. That simply wasn’t happening.
Well, it did happen. In time I did dance that vision. Exactly the way it was shown. In time, much was explained, although there is still much much more I don’t know. I have learned, when I am able to handle it, when my mind has the ability to comprehend it, the understanding will come. Patience was not an easy lesson for me to learn. It usually takes a busload of pain before I finally get it. But I am getting it.
Today I live with another vision. A vision of us, the lost and forgotten, the unknown coming together as one. A vision of us unified, under The Buffalo Boy Foundation, dancing for all our relatives. Joining together all our strength, our courage and banishing forever this idea of individuality. Fulfilling a vision of all Nations joining together under the Tree of Life, where we can be again the once magnificent People we always have been. Pierced through our hearts this agony of separation. Its time to break my relatives. Four times to the tree. Now walk with me. Feel the ropes tug gently and allow them to release you. Into a new dawn, a new beginning, fulfilling the promise of the Seventh Generation. Break my relatives, break. I will catch you.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Going Home Together
I'm sitting here this morning, as I do most mornings. Outside in a lawn chair, giving thanks for the day. Greeting those who walked before me, my Ancestors. A smoke, a cup of coffee. Superdog terrorizing the cat, and any other creature that gets his attention. Coming over for the occasional pat and scratch, then off again, determined to get that squirrel out the tree. On my mind, my prayer, is how. How do I do this? How do I get the attention of my lost relatives? Those like myself, with no tribal connection. Only a burning desire to return to what was, what should have never been taken away. I ponder often on how it must have been. When we were one.
I am only a man. With a broken heart and a dream. A burning desire to bring us together. How do immigrants come here, with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, and within months have a home, a business? Six months ago they were flat broke, living in absolute poverty. Now look at them. How does this work? And it hit me like a brick to the forehead. Unity. Their people work together as one. All give a little, so none suffer. Beautiful. Now, why in the flying sam hell cant we do this? I cant read another story of a grandmother beaten. Another single mother abused and raped. Not one more teen suicide. My soul screams every time I see the young men branded with gang symbols. Branding themselves, like cattle. Hunting their own people. No opportunities, no direction. I cant live with the ugly anymore. There must be beauty here, somewhere.
My mind drifts back to my first Sundance. I tell you this not because I want to, but because I am asked to. Draw your own conclusions. My first dance was in the desert. Nothing like Sundance in August in the middle of the desert. This I don’t recommend. Many things happened at that first dance, one particular event pertinent. Sitting in my chair between rounds, resting, napping, The second day this was. Walking up to the arbor is this little Elder woman. No idea who she was, I had never met her before. She has just arrived to camp and was standing at the entrance to the arbor, greeting those she had not seen since the year before. This was my first time in this camp, and many I didn’t know. I watched her for a few moments, then returned to my nap. Through the fog of a half sleep came the call for dancers. Eagle bone whistle piercing the dry dusty air. Slowly, achingly, tired and sore I rouse myself from the chair. Time to dance another round. We line up, shuffling our way into the dance circle. As I pass this Elder woman, still standing and chatting at the arbor entrance, I black out.
One of the prayers I brought to Sundance that year was to know my mothers people. I had previously met my fathers. An Uncle who was the spitting image of my Dad, but that’s another story. What follows next is what I was told. I have no memory of it. Of those moments, approximately 10 minutes, I have no recollection. I spoke with that Elder, this small woman who seemed to emanate raw spiritual power. I spoke with her, in our language! I don’t speak our language. All I remember is slamming back into my body, her smiling face before me, a soft tinkling laugh, like bells in the arid noon day heat. Her words to me were, “I thought I was the only one here. Imagine, two people from Alaska meeting in the desert!” She is my Auntie, on my mothers side. A prayer answered.
We spent that Sundance together, and she couldn’t tell me enough stories. No words exist to describe the joy, the absolute rapture, I felt to my soul. We left that dance, she returning home to Alaska, to continue the work she had been called to do. Me back to Pennsylvania, continuing on as the Guardian of the White Buffalo. A few months passed and we chatted occasionally on the phone. She passing on knowledge, me opening my big fat mouth and saying something stupid. I'm human, what can I say? I didn’t grow up in the culture, like so many others. So much I didn’t, and still, don’t know. So much I learned.
Days passed, nights turned. Little happened and life continued as usual. Until the evening my Ancestors came for me. I lay sleeping when they came. To an island they took me, far to the north, off the coast of Alaska. Around me stood totem poles of all shapes and sizes. All manner of creatures, from real to fabled. I was standing amongst them, surrounded by them. Nothing other than these totem poles could be seen, other than the emerald green grass beneath my feet, the crystal blue sky of a crisp fall day. From the silence, a crackling, a splintering. The totem poles were coming apart! Each carved creature separating from the one above and below. To me they came, singing in many voices. They danced for me, welcoming me home. Welcoming me back to my People.
This is what I carry with me each day. What I so desire to share with all my relatives. But how? What can I do to get your attention? And I realized, I cant. It isn’t up to me. We don’t tell the Sacred, the Sacred tells us. We must only learn to listen, then do as we are asked. I'm listening. I wonder, are you? Can you hear them singing in many voices? Can you see them dancing? Welcoming you home, to your people? A call to the lost to come together, as one. A song to come home. Dance with me my relatives. Sing with me. Come home with me.
I am only a man. With a broken heart and a dream. A burning desire to bring us together. How do immigrants come here, with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, and within months have a home, a business? Six months ago they were flat broke, living in absolute poverty. Now look at them. How does this work? And it hit me like a brick to the forehead. Unity. Their people work together as one. All give a little, so none suffer. Beautiful. Now, why in the flying sam hell cant we do this? I cant read another story of a grandmother beaten. Another single mother abused and raped. Not one more teen suicide. My soul screams every time I see the young men branded with gang symbols. Branding themselves, like cattle. Hunting their own people. No opportunities, no direction. I cant live with the ugly anymore. There must be beauty here, somewhere.
My mind drifts back to my first Sundance. I tell you this not because I want to, but because I am asked to. Draw your own conclusions. My first dance was in the desert. Nothing like Sundance in August in the middle of the desert. This I don’t recommend. Many things happened at that first dance, one particular event pertinent. Sitting in my chair between rounds, resting, napping, The second day this was. Walking up to the arbor is this little Elder woman. No idea who she was, I had never met her before. She has just arrived to camp and was standing at the entrance to the arbor, greeting those she had not seen since the year before. This was my first time in this camp, and many I didn’t know. I watched her for a few moments, then returned to my nap. Through the fog of a half sleep came the call for dancers. Eagle bone whistle piercing the dry dusty air. Slowly, achingly, tired and sore I rouse myself from the chair. Time to dance another round. We line up, shuffling our way into the dance circle. As I pass this Elder woman, still standing and chatting at the arbor entrance, I black out.
One of the prayers I brought to Sundance that year was to know my mothers people. I had previously met my fathers. An Uncle who was the spitting image of my Dad, but that’s another story. What follows next is what I was told. I have no memory of it. Of those moments, approximately 10 minutes, I have no recollection. I spoke with that Elder, this small woman who seemed to emanate raw spiritual power. I spoke with her, in our language! I don’t speak our language. All I remember is slamming back into my body, her smiling face before me, a soft tinkling laugh, like bells in the arid noon day heat. Her words to me were, “I thought I was the only one here. Imagine, two people from Alaska meeting in the desert!” She is my Auntie, on my mothers side. A prayer answered.
We spent that Sundance together, and she couldn’t tell me enough stories. No words exist to describe the joy, the absolute rapture, I felt to my soul. We left that dance, she returning home to Alaska, to continue the work she had been called to do. Me back to Pennsylvania, continuing on as the Guardian of the White Buffalo. A few months passed and we chatted occasionally on the phone. She passing on knowledge, me opening my big fat mouth and saying something stupid. I'm human, what can I say? I didn’t grow up in the culture, like so many others. So much I didn’t, and still, don’t know. So much I learned.
Days passed, nights turned. Little happened and life continued as usual. Until the evening my Ancestors came for me. I lay sleeping when they came. To an island they took me, far to the north, off the coast of Alaska. Around me stood totem poles of all shapes and sizes. All manner of creatures, from real to fabled. I was standing amongst them, surrounded by them. Nothing other than these totem poles could be seen, other than the emerald green grass beneath my feet, the crystal blue sky of a crisp fall day. From the silence, a crackling, a splintering. The totem poles were coming apart! Each carved creature separating from the one above and below. To me they came, singing in many voices. They danced for me, welcoming me home. Welcoming me back to my People.
This is what I carry with me each day. What I so desire to share with all my relatives. But how? What can I do to get your attention? And I realized, I cant. It isn’t up to me. We don’t tell the Sacred, the Sacred tells us. We must only learn to listen, then do as we are asked. I'm listening. I wonder, are you? Can you hear them singing in many voices? Can you see them dancing? Welcoming you home, to your people? A call to the lost to come together, as one. A song to come home. Dance with me my relatives. Sing with me. Come home with me.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Following Instructions
In March of 2006, I came to Western Pennsylvania. Been living on the road, ceremony to ceremony, powwow to powwow, socials, gatherings. Believe me when I say the last place I wanted to be was Pennsylvania. I had been in and out of this area since the late 80's. Didn’t like it here, and many of the mix bloods in the area certainly didn’t want me here. Much too much of a hard ass for them. Too rigid. I never could abide by the pixie dust and love and light brigade, and I wont hesitate to call a twinkie a twinkie. Tends to piss off the “lets play Indian crowd”. Didn’t care then, and still don’t. When I was told to come here you can believe the first thing I thought was “oh shit”. “Dammit all to hell” followed shortly thereafter.
Having lived thru what would kill most people, and certainly almost killed me several times, I've learned to do what I am told. There are consequences to our decisions. There is always a price to pay. A price for doing what is asked, and a price for not doing it. In my travels, I've learned the price for not doing what I'm told is usually worse. I knew coming to Pennsylvania would suck out loud, but its what I was being told to do, so I did. No knowledge or understanding of why. “They” aren’t under any obligation to tell us why. Only what. Its up to us to do it.
There I was, in a place I didn’t want to be, in an area I wasn’t wanted. Months passed, nothing happened, and I began to question my instructions. No one wanted me here, I'm being attacked from every direction, and life here, by then, had become unbearable. Obviously I missed something in the translation. I was out of here. The hell with this crap. I could go anywhere in the country and be shit on. I wasn’t staying here. I was going back to where the culture is still alive, in the right way. Set up an apartment, changed my bank account for my disability check, packed what little I had. Two days before I was supposed to leave, bang. A 16 year old kid, paying no attention to what he was doing drove into me head on at 70 miles an hour. As I'm laying in the street, smoking a cigarette, my first thought was “I am finally off this rock”. Not even close.
The accident left me with a broken neck. Spent an hour and a half in the ER, waiting. They wouldn’t treat me, because no one survives what had just happened to me. They figured I was a corpse with a pulse. Waiting for me to die. And agony? Oh god, you cant imagine the pain. Back is already broken in five places, now add a broken neck as the perfect accessory. I spent that hour and a half writhing in absolute agony. Nothing short of torture. When they finally realized I wouldn’t die, they transported me to another facility, fused my neck and told me it would be six months before I walked again. Four days in the ICU, two days in the recovery ward. On that sixth day I walked out of that hospital. To this day the doctor thinks he is a genius. I told him,”you don’t pray like I do”
Returning to the hospital for a checkup some days later, there was a newspaper laying on the chair, open at the front page. “White buffalo calf born in Farmington”. The light bulb went off. Now I knew why I had been sent to Pennsylvania. It took “them” breaking my neck to get my attention. And they had my full attention now. A few phones calls to some elders, a few real medicine people. Each laughing at me of course. Did I get it now? Uh, yes I did, thank you. Painfully, but comprehended.
Until May of this year, 2011, I kept that responsibility. Never once did I do anything that wasn’t honorable, with complete integrity. I understood, best as I could, every decision I made effected every relative on the planet. No drinking or drugging, which I had quit years before. No womanizing, chasing skirts, snagging. Something I had also quit years before. Always remembering the Sacred is not for sale. Not once did I sell out.
When I was instructed to leave in May 2011, actually more precisely “You have 48 hours to get out”, my first thought was “I'm done”. Going to find a little place in Mexico, and its cerveza and fish tacos for the rest of my life. Right, like “they” are going to let that happen. No, "they" have other plans for me. As usual, “they” aren’t saying why, just what. And here I am doing, immediately. Tired of breaking bones. That shit hurts.
This is my next chapter, in this ordeal lovingly referred to as my life. Bring the urban mix bloods together, as one force. Each of us, a light in the darkness. Together, we burn brighter than the sun. Like herding cats, but hey, a lot less painful than breaking something else. This then is what we will do. We will come together. We will unify. Under The Buffalo Boy Foundation, we will do the impossible.
The minimum amount an employer can legally pay someone today is $7.25 an hour. Social Security and Disability is at least $800.00, or there about. Now, explain to me why individually we cannot cut $5 or $10 a month out of this and send it to one organization we know we can trust, The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Why? Here's a thought. Keep your change from every purchase. Just the change. Every month, there is your contribution. Its hard to see where one person, living on only $700 or so a month, can possibly make any difference in this world. What many fail to realize is they can make a huge difference. When that difference is made together, as one.
This obviously begs the question, can we trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation? I wouldn’t know Jim Cortez from a can of paint. Have never met him. I do know Eli Tail. Sat through many ceremonies with him, and I have the utmost respect for him. He is everything you think of when you think “Grandfather". Why The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Because “they” told me. I've come to trust “them”. I've learned, albeit painfully, to listen to “them”, follow "their" instructions.
Who, exactly, are “they” and “them” mr. hawk? Listen closely, I'll tell you. About a year ago “they”came for me. Five I spoke with, while others watched. Ancients, who covered me with a dark blanket. They said “we have been watching you. How you care for the Elders, the young, the sick, those who need with never a thought for yourself. Regardless the suffering and sacrifice we have asked of you. You are now one of us”. How do I know this wasn’t a fitful dream? Because "they" wouldn’t let me awaken until I remembered "their" names. Names I have no reason to know, yet are now burned into my consciousness.
Therefore, by “their” instructions, this is what we are going to do, because “they” told us to. We, the scattered mix bloods of this country will come together, as one, unified under The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Each month we will send to The Buffalo Boy Foundation $5 or $10 dollars, more if we can. We will trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Give them a year. 12 months. We all have the potential. The trick is living up to that potential. If The Buffalo Boy Foundation screws it up, I have no doubt “they” will point us in another direction.
This is our time. We are the 7th generation. Our people, our culture, our way of life will rise again from the ashes of destruction wrought by the Doctrine of Discovery and Manifest Destiny. Colonization has seen its dying day, and we, the mix blood children of the First Nations People, are going to kill it. I'm out here, traveling amongst us. Anyone got a gas card I can borrow...indefinitely? Got places to go, relatives to see, idiots to piss off. I do have a Paypal account under my email (hawkgoodfire@yahoo.com). Anytime anyone wants to help me with gas, I ain’t saying no. Now, know this my relatives, I am coming. This is my responsibility, my next set of instructions. I am the car “they” are driving around. I will take this message of unity to each and every one of us. We will do this. We don’t have the tribal problems, although we do seem to enjoy attacking each other. No more fighting over scraps. Our table will be over laden. Our bounty plentiful. Here “they” come relatives. I hope you're ready.
Having lived thru what would kill most people, and certainly almost killed me several times, I've learned to do what I am told. There are consequences to our decisions. There is always a price to pay. A price for doing what is asked, and a price for not doing it. In my travels, I've learned the price for not doing what I'm told is usually worse. I knew coming to Pennsylvania would suck out loud, but its what I was being told to do, so I did. No knowledge or understanding of why. “They” aren’t under any obligation to tell us why. Only what. Its up to us to do it.
There I was, in a place I didn’t want to be, in an area I wasn’t wanted. Months passed, nothing happened, and I began to question my instructions. No one wanted me here, I'm being attacked from every direction, and life here, by then, had become unbearable. Obviously I missed something in the translation. I was out of here. The hell with this crap. I could go anywhere in the country and be shit on. I wasn’t staying here. I was going back to where the culture is still alive, in the right way. Set up an apartment, changed my bank account for my disability check, packed what little I had. Two days before I was supposed to leave, bang. A 16 year old kid, paying no attention to what he was doing drove into me head on at 70 miles an hour. As I'm laying in the street, smoking a cigarette, my first thought was “I am finally off this rock”. Not even close.
The accident left me with a broken neck. Spent an hour and a half in the ER, waiting. They wouldn’t treat me, because no one survives what had just happened to me. They figured I was a corpse with a pulse. Waiting for me to die. And agony? Oh god, you cant imagine the pain. Back is already broken in five places, now add a broken neck as the perfect accessory. I spent that hour and a half writhing in absolute agony. Nothing short of torture. When they finally realized I wouldn’t die, they transported me to another facility, fused my neck and told me it would be six months before I walked again. Four days in the ICU, two days in the recovery ward. On that sixth day I walked out of that hospital. To this day the doctor thinks he is a genius. I told him,”you don’t pray like I do”
Returning to the hospital for a checkup some days later, there was a newspaper laying on the chair, open at the front page. “White buffalo calf born in Farmington”. The light bulb went off. Now I knew why I had been sent to Pennsylvania. It took “them” breaking my neck to get my attention. And they had my full attention now. A few phones calls to some elders, a few real medicine people. Each laughing at me of course. Did I get it now? Uh, yes I did, thank you. Painfully, but comprehended.
Until May of this year, 2011, I kept that responsibility. Never once did I do anything that wasn’t honorable, with complete integrity. I understood, best as I could, every decision I made effected every relative on the planet. No drinking or drugging, which I had quit years before. No womanizing, chasing skirts, snagging. Something I had also quit years before. Always remembering the Sacred is not for sale. Not once did I sell out.
When I was instructed to leave in May 2011, actually more precisely “You have 48 hours to get out”, my first thought was “I'm done”. Going to find a little place in Mexico, and its cerveza and fish tacos for the rest of my life. Right, like “they” are going to let that happen. No, "they" have other plans for me. As usual, “they” aren’t saying why, just what. And here I am doing, immediately. Tired of breaking bones. That shit hurts.
This is my next chapter, in this ordeal lovingly referred to as my life. Bring the urban mix bloods together, as one force. Each of us, a light in the darkness. Together, we burn brighter than the sun. Like herding cats, but hey, a lot less painful than breaking something else. This then is what we will do. We will come together. We will unify. Under The Buffalo Boy Foundation, we will do the impossible.
The minimum amount an employer can legally pay someone today is $7.25 an hour. Social Security and Disability is at least $800.00, or there about. Now, explain to me why individually we cannot cut $5 or $10 a month out of this and send it to one organization we know we can trust, The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Why? Here's a thought. Keep your change from every purchase. Just the change. Every month, there is your contribution. Its hard to see where one person, living on only $700 or so a month, can possibly make any difference in this world. What many fail to realize is they can make a huge difference. When that difference is made together, as one.
This obviously begs the question, can we trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation? I wouldn’t know Jim Cortez from a can of paint. Have never met him. I do know Eli Tail. Sat through many ceremonies with him, and I have the utmost respect for him. He is everything you think of when you think “Grandfather". Why The Buffalo Boy Foundation? Because “they” told me. I've come to trust “them”. I've learned, albeit painfully, to listen to “them”, follow "their" instructions.
Who, exactly, are “they” and “them” mr. hawk? Listen closely, I'll tell you. About a year ago “they”came for me. Five I spoke with, while others watched. Ancients, who covered me with a dark blanket. They said “we have been watching you. How you care for the Elders, the young, the sick, those who need with never a thought for yourself. Regardless the suffering and sacrifice we have asked of you. You are now one of us”. How do I know this wasn’t a fitful dream? Because "they" wouldn’t let me awaken until I remembered "their" names. Names I have no reason to know, yet are now burned into my consciousness.
Therefore, by “their” instructions, this is what we are going to do, because “they” told us to. We, the scattered mix bloods of this country will come together, as one, unified under The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Each month we will send to The Buffalo Boy Foundation $5 or $10 dollars, more if we can. We will trust The Buffalo Boy Foundation. Give them a year. 12 months. We all have the potential. The trick is living up to that potential. If The Buffalo Boy Foundation screws it up, I have no doubt “they” will point us in another direction.
This is our time. We are the 7th generation. Our people, our culture, our way of life will rise again from the ashes of destruction wrought by the Doctrine of Discovery and Manifest Destiny. Colonization has seen its dying day, and we, the mix blood children of the First Nations People, are going to kill it. I'm out here, traveling amongst us. Anyone got a gas card I can borrow...indefinitely? Got places to go, relatives to see, idiots to piss off. I do have a Paypal account under my email (hawkgoodfire@yahoo.com). Anytime anyone wants to help me with gas, I ain’t saying no. Now, know this my relatives, I am coming. This is my responsibility, my next set of instructions. I am the car “they” are driving around. I will take this message of unity to each and every one of us. We will do this. We don’t have the tribal problems, although we do seem to enjoy attacking each other. No more fighting over scraps. Our table will be over laden. Our bounty plentiful. Here “they” come relatives. I hope you're ready.
The Dream Never Died
Not to long ago there was a man who came among the people. Everyone has heard of him, hell they teach of him in schools even today. This man, an extraordinary man, came from the Shawnee Nation. Born not of the chiefs, with no hereditary status. Just another member of the Nation, who was so thoroughly fed up with the state of affairs in his time, he did the impossible. Looking around him he could see the despair and destruction of his People and he refused to accept it. He knew the Shawnee were not the only ones. He knew every Nation was suffering in the same way. One day he woke up, and said the hell with this shit. Not a chief, with no right or privilege to the title or position. A member of the Nation, like everyone else, but this man was unlike anyone else. With nothing more than brass and balls, he stepped up and did what had to be done and to hell with anyone who didn’t like it. Up to and including the Chiefs, the Council and the US Government.
This isn’t a story the begins long ago, in the time of the Ancients. This isn’t a parable, made up to teach a moral lesson. This man actually existed. Died in 1812. Think about that. 1812. 199 years from this year. If we assume the average life span is 70 years, we are talking less than 3 generations. Our parents generation, our grandparents generation and our great grandparents. Our Great Grandparents. This man was walking, talking and kicking ass when our great grandparents were alive! I don’t know about you, but I remember my Great Grandma. The locals referred to her as the crazy Indian woman who lived in the woods. She carried a side by side 20 gauge, and wasn’t afraid to use it.
This man, who simply would not lay down and go along to get along had a brilliant idea. He said we, the First Nations People, are sticks. Scattered and easily broken as individuals. But, put us together. Bundle us as one. Unbreakable. Then he took that idea to every Nation he could. From the Gulf to Canada and as far as the Lakota. To everyone in between. Many refused to join him. Fear of the government raining hell fire on the remnants of their People. Fear of losing the iron pots and steel sewing needles. All the innovations making life easy. No more war, no more death, rape and destruction. I don’t fault the Chiefs for making that decision. If they hadn’t, there would be even less of us today. Yet they were relying on a group of people to keep there word. A group that never had and to this day, still hasn’t. I think its safe to say they never will.
In a short time, this man brought the People of many Nations together. As one, unified, willing to fight and die to remain who they were. Refusal to assimilate and become what they weren’t. Refusal to go along and be “good Indians”. This man left his People and with those he brought together from the many Nations, they formed Prophetstown in 1808. A new Nation, a return to life as themselves, not what a newly formed government wanted them to be. A place that was spiritual, social and political. Their main goal was to halt US encroachment into Native lands. On November 7th, 1811, the newly formed government burned it to the ground. They paid a hell of a price. He paid a hell of a price. In a desperate bid to be themselves, to live as their Ancestors had lived. To keep the culture alive and so their children, our grandparents, would not forget who they were. His name was Tecumseh, and look at us now.
Beaten, broken, dispersed among the population. Our grandparents did forget, as did our parents. How many of us were taught who we are? How many of us have grown up, only to learn our true heritage when we became young adults? How many of us are still lost? What in the hell are we doing? The bundle has been broken. Someone figured out how to untie it, and then one by one, snap each stick in two. In less than 200 years, everything he fought for, everything he stood for, those with him stood for, is gone. Or is it?
Is there a way to put the bundle back together? Can we again become the unbreakable force we once were? Can we be again what he gave his life for, what all our Ancestors gave their lives for. Yes, I for one believe we can. I believe we aren’t broken. I believe the fire still burns, as hot as ever. I look around me and see my relatives of the many Nations beaten, but not broken. Scattered across this great country that bleeds with every step we take. Bleeds the blood of those who gave so much, gave their lives, so we could live. I see us again, as One People of many Nations, living the dream he gave his life for. Like this great man, I will travel from the Gulf to Canada,to the Lakota and beyond. I will bring his message of unity to those who will listen. Many will turn away. Fear of the government. Fear of losing the innovations that makes life easier.
I am not that great man. I certainly don’t believe some new age version of a reincarnation of the man. But I do believe in his dream, in his vision. I believe that vision is alive today. Burning in all of us. The lost, the forgotten, the unknown. I believe many more, like myself, believe that great mans vision. I'm not a chief. I have no right or privilege to the title or position. But like that great man, with nothing more than brass and balls, I will live to see us united, and to hell with those who dont like it, up to and including the Cheifs who have sold out, the Council that is corrupt and the US Government that only wants us dead.
This isn’t a story the begins long ago, in the time of the Ancients. This isn’t a parable, made up to teach a moral lesson. This man actually existed. Died in 1812. Think about that. 1812. 199 years from this year. If we assume the average life span is 70 years, we are talking less than 3 generations. Our parents generation, our grandparents generation and our great grandparents. Our Great Grandparents. This man was walking, talking and kicking ass when our great grandparents were alive! I don’t know about you, but I remember my Great Grandma. The locals referred to her as the crazy Indian woman who lived in the woods. She carried a side by side 20 gauge, and wasn’t afraid to use it.
This man, who simply would not lay down and go along to get along had a brilliant idea. He said we, the First Nations People, are sticks. Scattered and easily broken as individuals. But, put us together. Bundle us as one. Unbreakable. Then he took that idea to every Nation he could. From the Gulf to Canada and as far as the Lakota. To everyone in between. Many refused to join him. Fear of the government raining hell fire on the remnants of their People. Fear of losing the iron pots and steel sewing needles. All the innovations making life easy. No more war, no more death, rape and destruction. I don’t fault the Chiefs for making that decision. If they hadn’t, there would be even less of us today. Yet they were relying on a group of people to keep there word. A group that never had and to this day, still hasn’t. I think its safe to say they never will.
In a short time, this man brought the People of many Nations together. As one, unified, willing to fight and die to remain who they were. Refusal to assimilate and become what they weren’t. Refusal to go along and be “good Indians”. This man left his People and with those he brought together from the many Nations, they formed Prophetstown in 1808. A new Nation, a return to life as themselves, not what a newly formed government wanted them to be. A place that was spiritual, social and political. Their main goal was to halt US encroachment into Native lands. On November 7th, 1811, the newly formed government burned it to the ground. They paid a hell of a price. He paid a hell of a price. In a desperate bid to be themselves, to live as their Ancestors had lived. To keep the culture alive and so their children, our grandparents, would not forget who they were. His name was Tecumseh, and look at us now.
Beaten, broken, dispersed among the population. Our grandparents did forget, as did our parents. How many of us were taught who we are? How many of us have grown up, only to learn our true heritage when we became young adults? How many of us are still lost? What in the hell are we doing? The bundle has been broken. Someone figured out how to untie it, and then one by one, snap each stick in two. In less than 200 years, everything he fought for, everything he stood for, those with him stood for, is gone. Or is it?
Is there a way to put the bundle back together? Can we again become the unbreakable force we once were? Can we be again what he gave his life for, what all our Ancestors gave their lives for. Yes, I for one believe we can. I believe we aren’t broken. I believe the fire still burns, as hot as ever. I look around me and see my relatives of the many Nations beaten, but not broken. Scattered across this great country that bleeds with every step we take. Bleeds the blood of those who gave so much, gave their lives, so we could live. I see us again, as One People of many Nations, living the dream he gave his life for. Like this great man, I will travel from the Gulf to Canada,to the Lakota and beyond. I will bring his message of unity to those who will listen. Many will turn away. Fear of the government. Fear of losing the innovations that makes life easier.
I am not that great man. I certainly don’t believe some new age version of a reincarnation of the man. But I do believe in his dream, in his vision. I believe that vision is alive today. Burning in all of us. The lost, the forgotten, the unknown. I believe many more, like myself, believe that great mans vision. I'm not a chief. I have no right or privilege to the title or position. But like that great man, with nothing more than brass and balls, I will live to see us united, and to hell with those who dont like it, up to and including the Cheifs who have sold out, the Council that is corrupt and the US Government that only wants us dead.
Time To Weed The Garden
Some time back, I saw this beautiful thing that was taking place. In the cities throughout this country, in the middle of asphalt and steel, are gardens. Set up by the community and cared for by the community. Everyone benefits from the garden, but it is also everyone’s responsibility to take care of the garden. I've thought about that for a long time. What a beautiful idea. Then I realized, we have our gardens too. The dominant society, notice I said dominant, not superior, made them ugly. But we, the First Nations People, have a way of turning ugly into beauty.
As of now, our gardens are overgrown with weeds, over run by rats and parasites. Yeah, I said it. They are going to kill me eventually anyway, so I may as well make sure I give them every good justifiable reason to murder my crazy ass. Back to our garden. There are many. Scattered throughout this country. And in our garden, there are still a few roses. Not many, fewer each year. Some die off, never found. Others are choked out, ripped out. Still others morph into weeds. I think that’s the one that hurts the most. We are the community. As it is now, we want to benefit from our garden, but no one is doing the maintenance.
Every year, a new crop of us descend upon the reservations. With dreams and visions, a burning desire to reconnect to our Ancestors. We are descendants. We can prove it. Old photos, paper trails, our family names on the roles. We have been separated from our People by three, four and even more generations. Yet, the blood burns just as hot in us. We all eventually hear that voice, feel that pull, to go home. So we load up our vehicles and head for the rez, desperately trying to answer that yearning inside us. No clue as to what or where, we just have to go. And we take. The rez, that’s where the culture is, the history is, the knowledge is. We arrive to these places of utter devastation, to take that culture, that history, that knowledge. We leave a few scraps of cloth, some tobacco, a few days meals. Then return to urban society, full of all we have stolen.
What most don’t begin to realize, usually until much later, is they have been played. There are those who know you are coming. They wait for you. They know exactly what monuments and places your are going to visit. For generations they have fed off you, and every year we never disappoint. We arrive, and they descend on us like a pack of wolves. Its how many survive until the next year, the next crop of urban breeds. Many, most, have nothing more than the culture to sell. They use it to feed their families. Except what they are selling is a watered down version. Just enough to satisfy our lust, but not enough to actually satisfy hunger. They have to keep us coming back every year.
We know the stats. 90% unemployment. 90%. What that means is 9 out of 10 people don’t have a job. 9 out of 10. And the 1 that does is working minimum wage, trying to support a family of 30 on $7.25 an hour. Our relatives have been isolated, separated from society. A entire group of people, caged with imaginary fences. No work, insufficient health care, ineffective education. No where to go, nothing to do and no way to get there if they could. Corrupt tribal governments keeping them that way. Taking loans from the bank, using reservation land as collateral, then defaulting on the loans. And little by little, the land is eaten away at the edges. Then here we come, trotting along in our vehicles that are all one color, with four matching tires and a recent oil change. Come to take the only thing that’s left. Come to take the fat.
So, what do we have our relatives don’t? We agree they have the culture, the history, the knowledge. What we have are jobs. A paycheck. As of May 2011, the unemployment rate in the country is 9.1%. More of us are working, verses more of our relatives that aren’t. We need a bridge between the two. A way to connect us to them. But what? How do we build this bridge? Where do we start?
We find a rose in our garden. Because the reservations are our garden. And the weeding needs done. Trapped in the middle of concrete and steel, islands amidst the asphalt. We are the community and it is our responsibility to care for our garden. We are out here, and for now we are running around like free range chickens. Hundreds of little groups here and there, all attempting to maintain our garden and every one failing. Like trying to soak the beach by reaching into a bucket and flinging droplets on the sand. Only to run back into the ocean to get another bucket. Futile empty attempts. And the damn firehouse is just sitting there. We, the urban mix bloods, have the capability of creating a deluge. We have the ability to grab that hose, and wash away the debris.
For years we have been seen as a commodity, something to be drained and fed upon, because there are always more where we came from. As long as we remain scattered and separated, this pattern will continue. Its well past time to break the pattern, to weed our gardens. But first, we have to find that rose. Just one rose, in the middle of waste and destruction. That rose has been shown.
The Buffalo Boy Foundation. This is our rose. This is our focus point. These are people we can trust, who know who needs help and where. Who know the predators, the drunks and druggies working us for their next fix. How many of us have met up with someone, been given just enough to keep us coming back, only to get that phone call, “hey, I need some money”. We think we are helping to pay the bills, but what we are really doing is providing them with money for the casino. We're buying the beer, and we don’t even realize it. And yes, we are being laughed at.
This is how this is going to work. We have the jobs, our relatives have the culture. This is our garden. Every one of us urban mix bloods are going to focus on the Buffalo Boy Foundation. We will unify under the Buffalo Boy foundation, as one entity. And there are millions of us. Give a million people a dollar, you effect nothing. Everyone has a buck. Conversely, take all those dollars and put them in one hat, now you have something to work with.
Every month, each of us, together, unified as one, will send a few dollars to the Buffalo Boy Foundation. $5, $10, $20, whatever. They will be our repository. All our power, our resources, focused in one place. Distributed to those who need, not those who feed on us. We will come when called, helping to build homes, create an economic base, rectify the health and education. Its our responsibility. It is our garden. We are responsible, and we will take responsibility. Imagine, millions of dollars, untouched by corporate greed. No government fingers. No corrupt officials and nepotism. Millions are sent to each reservation by this government every year. Where does it all go? Because our relatives sure as hell aren’t seeing it. Well, to hell with that idea. It doesn’t work. This will.
We can go back to what we were. I'm not talking about teepees and campfires. I mean go back to our pride, our dignity, our honor. Show this world who we really are. Stop taking the fat and start giving the fat. Those of us out here, living in this society. We have the jobs, the means, to do this. There is not one single reason we cant. Not one. All of us, together, contributing to one source. Because right now, we are part of the problem. Whatever excuse you are thinking of, its lame. Whether we are on disability, social security, pushing a broom or running a business. If you are getting a check, it is your responsibility to put into the pot. Then we pass this responsibility on to our children. So they know, when they get a job, a piece goes back to the garden. There are a few wealthy First Nations People. When they see what we are doing, they will join us, and the pot will get bigger. This can only grow. It cannot fail. All we have to do is do it. Right now. Today.
In time, when we show up, when our children show up, looking to connect again with their relatives, no one will be there waiting to feed on them. Our gardens, created out of wasteland. Once again flourishing. Our entire community, benefiting from our garden. Because our entire community is doing the maintenance. Now, give me one good reason why not? Just one. Together, unified as one, the strength of every one of us. What a beautiful garden it will be.
Jim Cortez
The Buffalo Boy Foundation
PO Box 1005
Mission, SD 57555
http://thebuffaloboyfoundation.org/Help-Native-Americans/Tipi.html
As of now, our gardens are overgrown with weeds, over run by rats and parasites. Yeah, I said it. They are going to kill me eventually anyway, so I may as well make sure I give them every good justifiable reason to murder my crazy ass. Back to our garden. There are many. Scattered throughout this country. And in our garden, there are still a few roses. Not many, fewer each year. Some die off, never found. Others are choked out, ripped out. Still others morph into weeds. I think that’s the one that hurts the most. We are the community. As it is now, we want to benefit from our garden, but no one is doing the maintenance.
Every year, a new crop of us descend upon the reservations. With dreams and visions, a burning desire to reconnect to our Ancestors. We are descendants. We can prove it. Old photos, paper trails, our family names on the roles. We have been separated from our People by three, four and even more generations. Yet, the blood burns just as hot in us. We all eventually hear that voice, feel that pull, to go home. So we load up our vehicles and head for the rez, desperately trying to answer that yearning inside us. No clue as to what or where, we just have to go. And we take. The rez, that’s where the culture is, the history is, the knowledge is. We arrive to these places of utter devastation, to take that culture, that history, that knowledge. We leave a few scraps of cloth, some tobacco, a few days meals. Then return to urban society, full of all we have stolen.
What most don’t begin to realize, usually until much later, is they have been played. There are those who know you are coming. They wait for you. They know exactly what monuments and places your are going to visit. For generations they have fed off you, and every year we never disappoint. We arrive, and they descend on us like a pack of wolves. Its how many survive until the next year, the next crop of urban breeds. Many, most, have nothing more than the culture to sell. They use it to feed their families. Except what they are selling is a watered down version. Just enough to satisfy our lust, but not enough to actually satisfy hunger. They have to keep us coming back every year.
We know the stats. 90% unemployment. 90%. What that means is 9 out of 10 people don’t have a job. 9 out of 10. And the 1 that does is working minimum wage, trying to support a family of 30 on $7.25 an hour. Our relatives have been isolated, separated from society. A entire group of people, caged with imaginary fences. No work, insufficient health care, ineffective education. No where to go, nothing to do and no way to get there if they could. Corrupt tribal governments keeping them that way. Taking loans from the bank, using reservation land as collateral, then defaulting on the loans. And little by little, the land is eaten away at the edges. Then here we come, trotting along in our vehicles that are all one color, with four matching tires and a recent oil change. Come to take the only thing that’s left. Come to take the fat.
So, what do we have our relatives don’t? We agree they have the culture, the history, the knowledge. What we have are jobs. A paycheck. As of May 2011, the unemployment rate in the country is 9.1%. More of us are working, verses more of our relatives that aren’t. We need a bridge between the two. A way to connect us to them. But what? How do we build this bridge? Where do we start?
We find a rose in our garden. Because the reservations are our garden. And the weeding needs done. Trapped in the middle of concrete and steel, islands amidst the asphalt. We are the community and it is our responsibility to care for our garden. We are out here, and for now we are running around like free range chickens. Hundreds of little groups here and there, all attempting to maintain our garden and every one failing. Like trying to soak the beach by reaching into a bucket and flinging droplets on the sand. Only to run back into the ocean to get another bucket. Futile empty attempts. And the damn firehouse is just sitting there. We, the urban mix bloods, have the capability of creating a deluge. We have the ability to grab that hose, and wash away the debris.
For years we have been seen as a commodity, something to be drained and fed upon, because there are always more where we came from. As long as we remain scattered and separated, this pattern will continue. Its well past time to break the pattern, to weed our gardens. But first, we have to find that rose. Just one rose, in the middle of waste and destruction. That rose has been shown.
The Buffalo Boy Foundation. This is our rose. This is our focus point. These are people we can trust, who know who needs help and where. Who know the predators, the drunks and druggies working us for their next fix. How many of us have met up with someone, been given just enough to keep us coming back, only to get that phone call, “hey, I need some money”. We think we are helping to pay the bills, but what we are really doing is providing them with money for the casino. We're buying the beer, and we don’t even realize it. And yes, we are being laughed at.
This is how this is going to work. We have the jobs, our relatives have the culture. This is our garden. Every one of us urban mix bloods are going to focus on the Buffalo Boy Foundation. We will unify under the Buffalo Boy foundation, as one entity. And there are millions of us. Give a million people a dollar, you effect nothing. Everyone has a buck. Conversely, take all those dollars and put them in one hat, now you have something to work with.
Every month, each of us, together, unified as one, will send a few dollars to the Buffalo Boy Foundation. $5, $10, $20, whatever. They will be our repository. All our power, our resources, focused in one place. Distributed to those who need, not those who feed on us. We will come when called, helping to build homes, create an economic base, rectify the health and education. Its our responsibility. It is our garden. We are responsible, and we will take responsibility. Imagine, millions of dollars, untouched by corporate greed. No government fingers. No corrupt officials and nepotism. Millions are sent to each reservation by this government every year. Where does it all go? Because our relatives sure as hell aren’t seeing it. Well, to hell with that idea. It doesn’t work. This will.
We can go back to what we were. I'm not talking about teepees and campfires. I mean go back to our pride, our dignity, our honor. Show this world who we really are. Stop taking the fat and start giving the fat. Those of us out here, living in this society. We have the jobs, the means, to do this. There is not one single reason we cant. Not one. All of us, together, contributing to one source. Because right now, we are part of the problem. Whatever excuse you are thinking of, its lame. Whether we are on disability, social security, pushing a broom or running a business. If you are getting a check, it is your responsibility to put into the pot. Then we pass this responsibility on to our children. So they know, when they get a job, a piece goes back to the garden. There are a few wealthy First Nations People. When they see what we are doing, they will join us, and the pot will get bigger. This can only grow. It cannot fail. All we have to do is do it. Right now. Today.
In time, when we show up, when our children show up, looking to connect again with their relatives, no one will be there waiting to feed on them. Our gardens, created out of wasteland. Once again flourishing. Our entire community, benefiting from our garden. Because our entire community is doing the maintenance. Now, give me one good reason why not? Just one. Together, unified as one, the strength of every one of us. What a beautiful garden it will be.
Jim Cortez
The Buffalo Boy Foundation
PO Box 1005
Mission, SD 57555
http://thebuffaloboyfoundation.org/Help-Native-Americans/Tipi.html
A Voice for the Urban Breed
Breed, half breed, mix blood. Just a couple of the not so attractive labels we live with. Discarded, forgotten, many unknown. Ignored and pushed aside by our own People; forced to conform to a society we don’t accept. Caught, somewhere between two worlds, and accepted in neither. We are the bastard children of a forgotten People. Descended from the boarding schools and Indian Relocation Act. For all intents and purposes, we don’t exist. But when I look in the mirror, there I am. And I'm not the only one.
No doubt, we are the largest disenfranchised group of people in this country. No voice, no leadership, no unity. Scattered like leaves in the wind, with small pockets making futile attempts at assisting our Relations trapped in the federal prison camps known euphemistically as reservations. Much too busy fighting each other over what scraps we can scrounge up to actually accomplish anything. Attacking each other, destroying whatever good we try to accomplish, because someone isn’t “Indian enough”. Doesn’t fit the stereotypical image. Doesn’t abide by made up or imagined ideologies of what “real Indians” are like. Most have never been to a reservation. Many have never left their hometowns. Yet, through the propaganda of literature and movies, they know how it is and never hesitate to shove their confused and twisted concepts down everyone’s throat. Then ostracize those who refuse to conform.
We have groups and individuals visiting schools and teaching some of the most outlandish of customs never before heard of. Speaking as those they are experts on First Nations culture, yet unable to differentiate between an eagle feather and vulture. Staging gatherings and dances in costumes that simply boggle the mind to witness. Perpetuating every stereotype known and along the way, creating a few new ones.
Then there are those who fall prey to the “leave the rez become a god” individuals. May as well face it, we are killing ourselves. Most reservations are horrible places to live, and many learned some time ago, there are fools out here. Like any good barker at the circus, they have learned how to say the right words, a little flash and slight of hand, and the urban confused are throwing coins, clapping hands and exalting how real it is. By the time they figure out whats happening, these predators are gone, taking everything that isn’t nailed to the floor. Burning through the mix bloods like dry grass in a prairie fire, leaving total destruction behind. Some recoup from this devastation. Many, most never do.
Yet, we remain. Waiting for that voice. That Leader to step out of Indian Country who will unite us, bring us into the fold, give us that opportunity to make a real difference. We are well aware of the conditions our Relatives are living in. Highest rate of Type 2 diabetes. Healthcare 60% less than the National Average. One in five homes with insufficient plumbing, 50% not connected to a sewer system. 30% in overcrowded housing, 18% in severely overcrowded, with 25 to 30 individuals in one home. Six times the National Average. 40% inadequate housing, 40% with no electricity, home loan denial 25%. Unemployment rate as much as 90%. Teen suicide 3 times the national average. Infant mortality 3 times the National Average, 40% with no prenatal care. Rape, murder, drugs, alcohol. Every kind of abuse imaginable. There simply isn’t enough room. We know this, and we so desperately want to do something, anything. These are our Relatives for Gods sake. Isolated, secluded from the rest of the population. With corrupt tribal governments and our own people feeding off each other. We are destroying ourselves at every turn.
Young women unable to walk alone anywhere, for fear of being wolf packed, jumped and raped by our young men. By the local townies, who cruise the reservations looking for that single girl, alone. Young men, no longer interested in becoming warriors for the people, now seek to be gangsters. A gangster steals grandmas check, so she starves. A warrior ensures she has food. A gangster preys on his relatives. A warrior prays with his relatives. A gangster tags his territory. A warrior paints his home.
Now add us to this pressure cooker. Once a year some travel to the reservations. In our nice cars, trunks packed with food. Strutting like peacocks without a thought to the display. Then whining and bitching when we aren’t accepted, are used and abused, stolen from, taken advantage of. Crying because they wont let us play in their sandbox. Would you? If a relative you didn’t know showed up at a family gathering in a chauffeured limo, flashing all they have, rubbing your face in all you don’t, how do you think it would make you feel? How do you think our relatives, living in poverty to rival that of third world countries feel?
We are well aware of the problems. We have the tools to fix it. We have the solutions to education, health, poverty, housing. All of the pieces exist for us, the forgotten, the discarded, the unwanted, to rectify the conditions of our relatives. We need a voice, someone to lead us. To unify, together, as one. That voice isn’t coming out of Indian Country. It isn’t coming from the reservation. The predators are in control. That voice must come from us. We have been waiting, biding our time, listening, watching for that individual who will lead us. Unify us, to assist our relatives, to end this destruction of our people, our culture. Then maybe, our relatives will welcome us home. When they see those of us who aren’t seeking casino handouts and government assistance with our minimal blood quotient. That there are those of us who remember respect, honor, integrity.
I am no longer waiting for that voice. There is no more time to wait. What needs done must be done now. Today. Yesterday. Hear my voice, know I am speaking for you. For every unknown existing in a society that doesn’t want us, refuses to recognize us, demands we conform to a system of self destruction. Together, the millions of us, separated by nothing more than our imaginations, finally together as one force. Building homes, meetings needs, providing a sustainable economic base. A future where we can flourish and become again what we should never have forgotten. All of us, joined together as one, rising from the ashes of the attempted destruction. Can you hear my voice?
No doubt, we are the largest disenfranchised group of people in this country. No voice, no leadership, no unity. Scattered like leaves in the wind, with small pockets making futile attempts at assisting our Relations trapped in the federal prison camps known euphemistically as reservations. Much too busy fighting each other over what scraps we can scrounge up to actually accomplish anything. Attacking each other, destroying whatever good we try to accomplish, because someone isn’t “Indian enough”. Doesn’t fit the stereotypical image. Doesn’t abide by made up or imagined ideologies of what “real Indians” are like. Most have never been to a reservation. Many have never left their hometowns. Yet, through the propaganda of literature and movies, they know how it is and never hesitate to shove their confused and twisted concepts down everyone’s throat. Then ostracize those who refuse to conform.
We have groups and individuals visiting schools and teaching some of the most outlandish of customs never before heard of. Speaking as those they are experts on First Nations culture, yet unable to differentiate between an eagle feather and vulture. Staging gatherings and dances in costumes that simply boggle the mind to witness. Perpetuating every stereotype known and along the way, creating a few new ones.
Then there are those who fall prey to the “leave the rez become a god” individuals. May as well face it, we are killing ourselves. Most reservations are horrible places to live, and many learned some time ago, there are fools out here. Like any good barker at the circus, they have learned how to say the right words, a little flash and slight of hand, and the urban confused are throwing coins, clapping hands and exalting how real it is. By the time they figure out whats happening, these predators are gone, taking everything that isn’t nailed to the floor. Burning through the mix bloods like dry grass in a prairie fire, leaving total destruction behind. Some recoup from this devastation. Many, most never do.
Yet, we remain. Waiting for that voice. That Leader to step out of Indian Country who will unite us, bring us into the fold, give us that opportunity to make a real difference. We are well aware of the conditions our Relatives are living in. Highest rate of Type 2 diabetes. Healthcare 60% less than the National Average. One in five homes with insufficient plumbing, 50% not connected to a sewer system. 30% in overcrowded housing, 18% in severely overcrowded, with 25 to 30 individuals in one home. Six times the National Average. 40% inadequate housing, 40% with no electricity, home loan denial 25%. Unemployment rate as much as 90%. Teen suicide 3 times the national average. Infant mortality 3 times the National Average, 40% with no prenatal care. Rape, murder, drugs, alcohol. Every kind of abuse imaginable. There simply isn’t enough room. We know this, and we so desperately want to do something, anything. These are our Relatives for Gods sake. Isolated, secluded from the rest of the population. With corrupt tribal governments and our own people feeding off each other. We are destroying ourselves at every turn.
Young women unable to walk alone anywhere, for fear of being wolf packed, jumped and raped by our young men. By the local townies, who cruise the reservations looking for that single girl, alone. Young men, no longer interested in becoming warriors for the people, now seek to be gangsters. A gangster steals grandmas check, so she starves. A warrior ensures she has food. A gangster preys on his relatives. A warrior prays with his relatives. A gangster tags his territory. A warrior paints his home.
Now add us to this pressure cooker. Once a year some travel to the reservations. In our nice cars, trunks packed with food. Strutting like peacocks without a thought to the display. Then whining and bitching when we aren’t accepted, are used and abused, stolen from, taken advantage of. Crying because they wont let us play in their sandbox. Would you? If a relative you didn’t know showed up at a family gathering in a chauffeured limo, flashing all they have, rubbing your face in all you don’t, how do you think it would make you feel? How do you think our relatives, living in poverty to rival that of third world countries feel?
We are well aware of the problems. We have the tools to fix it. We have the solutions to education, health, poverty, housing. All of the pieces exist for us, the forgotten, the discarded, the unwanted, to rectify the conditions of our relatives. We need a voice, someone to lead us. To unify, together, as one. That voice isn’t coming out of Indian Country. It isn’t coming from the reservation. The predators are in control. That voice must come from us. We have been waiting, biding our time, listening, watching for that individual who will lead us. Unify us, to assist our relatives, to end this destruction of our people, our culture. Then maybe, our relatives will welcome us home. When they see those of us who aren’t seeking casino handouts and government assistance with our minimal blood quotient. That there are those of us who remember respect, honor, integrity.
I am no longer waiting for that voice. There is no more time to wait. What needs done must be done now. Today. Yesterday. Hear my voice, know I am speaking for you. For every unknown existing in a society that doesn’t want us, refuses to recognize us, demands we conform to a system of self destruction. Together, the millions of us, separated by nothing more than our imaginations, finally together as one force. Building homes, meetings needs, providing a sustainable economic base. A future where we can flourish and become again what we should never have forgotten. All of us, joined together as one, rising from the ashes of the attempted destruction. Can you hear my voice?
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